


Familiar

by trickybonmot



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Abandoned Work - Unfinished and Discontinued, Alternate Universe - Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell Fusion, Alternate Universe - Magic, But not exactly, M/M, Magic London, Sherlock Holmes Has No Boundaries
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-20
Updated: 2020-10-20
Packaged: 2021-03-08 20:34:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,578
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27112676
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/trickybonmot/pseuds/trickybonmot
Summary: Post for Good Intentions WIP Fest! This is an UNFINISHED FIC and will likely never be finished. Sherlock Holmes, a rogue member of a fairy race which humans call Magicians, takes John Watson in as a roommate under rather underspecified payment terms. John is taken in by the Magician's charisma while getting more and more entangled in his mysterious affairs. John gradually learns that Sherlock's working relationship with him breaks some ancient and important rules among Magiciankind.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 1
Kudos: 5
Collections: Good Intentions: Abandoned and Unfinished WIPs





	Familiar

**Author's Note:**

> This fic has been "in progress" for probably seven or eight years (it certainly predates the birth of my older child). It was originally inspired by a Reapersun illustration of Mycroft as a Faerie gentleman. At that time it had been a number of years since I had read Johnathan Strange, but the TV series had not come out yet. So I got this idea to try to write something in the half-remembered mood of Johnathan Strange, but modern, and...without any actual reference to the original. The idea was that John and Sherlock would do magical cases together, and Sherlock would require progressively more and more intimate bodily substances from John with which to perform spells. Their relationship becomes more and more entangled until they finally have to face the question of whether John is Sherlock's "familiar" or not.
> 
> Ultimately the reason it never got finished is because I was not very interested in writing magical casefic. RIP. I've posted with all my [...] and notes to self left where they are. I'm up for discussing anything about this fic, but I definitely do not ever see myself finishing it.
> 
> Content warning for some light consensual flogging with improper and prickly objects, for magic reasons.

When John Watson returned to London with a bad leg and a bullet wound, he wasn’t looking for charity. Nor did he find it, though the offer of free lodging may have seemed like charity on its face. 

Out of money, out of plans, maybe even out of hope, John had explained his situation to his old schoolmate Mike Stamford. Mike pursed his lips and knit his brows, as though uncertain whether to speak, then said:

“Well, I know someone who could help you, maybe, though I’m not sure you’d be better off.”

John asked him to explain, but Mike kept silent, taking John instead back to St. Bartholomew’s hospital, where he made his living. But instead of the upper floors, which John knew well, Mike led John down, and down again (a slow business for John, with his cane, descent more difficult than climbing), to a basement laboratory, adjacent to the morgue, a lamplit room strong-smelling of herbs and resins. There, gazing into a silver bowl, sat a magician.

Now John had met a fair few such people in his time. They did, after all, work under government contracts in Afghanistan, doing things the regular corps would rather not know were being done. In that country they kept their pointed ears covered to escape notice, but you could always tell them anyhow by the way their eyes seemed shadowed even in the sun. This fellow took no trouble to hide what he was, perched lanky as a scarecrow on his stool, wearing a dark, old-fashioned suit of clothes that seemed designed to paint him as a creature of night. Black hair curled untidily at the level of his sharp cheekbones, but even sharper stood the points of his ears, piercing through the black mass and catching the yellow light.

“This is Sherlock Holmes,” Mike Stamford whispered, and John found himself propelled forward by a gentle shove. He was just clearing his throat, debating how to introduce himself, when the apparition spoke.

“John Hamish Watson,” he said, and John tried not to jump out of his skin, because this was just something magicians could do: know your name without being told. It didn’t help that his voice sounded like pure midnight crawling out of a panther’s throat. Sherlock Holmes looked up at him, and John felt that he was being looked _through_ , by those eyes he could not clearly see in the dimness[ Find a chance to talk more about this].

“I don’t know, Stamford, do you really think he’ll do?” Sherlock said slowly, not taking his gaze off of John. “He seems a little too...proud.”

John bristled at being spoken about in such a fashion, but Mike answered before he could speak.

“Proud enough to try you on, perhaps,” he said. “Too proud to run away.”

“Now look here,” said John, “I’m not looking for a spell, or a charm, or--”

“You couldn’t afford it anyway,” said Sherlock Holmes, his mouth stretching into a lazy smile, and oh, he was a little terrifying. But it was just as Mike had said: he was too proud to run away. “No, John, nobody thinks you’re looking for favors. It’s you who can do me a favor. I’m looking for someone to share my flat. You needn’t pay.” John raised his brows, surprised. “I only ask that you be available for certain minor tasks from time to time.”

“I’m not interested in being a servant,” John said, but Sherlock waved his hand.

“Certainly not. That _would_ be inappropriate. No, your time will be entirely your own, except for a few minutes now and then. You’ll have your own room, all the privacy you could wish, you can treat the place in every respect as your own home. But I am, as you can see, a magician, and I would find it beneficial now and then to have the help of a trusted assistant.”

“And how do you know you can trust me?” John asked.

“My dear Watson, it is quite simple,” he replied, a tone of menace creeping into his voice. “I shall know where you live.”

Those were the terms, then: Live with him, don’t cross him, feed his pet salamander from time to time, or whatever. Slip up, and be prepared to face the sharp of end of his wand. Well, all right. What, after all, was there to be afraid of?

“The address is 221 B Baker Street,” said Sherlock, though John hadn’t spoken aloud. “Be there at seven o’clock.”

John pondered this strange encounter for the rest of the afternoon, trying to guess whether he had chosen rightly. It was true that he could hardly wait to see the last of the grim bedsit room where he’d been staying, and it was also true that he could hardly afford more than the nonexistent rent that Sherlock Holmes had offered. Still, it would at least be interesting, and that was something he had to admit he’d been craving. Scary and strange, or safe and dull? It was not even really a question.

So John packed his duffel and took the Underground to Baker Street. (As usual, the Underground was full of subterranean sorts[ Elaborate on this], but John was used to this thanks to his slim finances.) The house was tall and narrow, covered in dark ivy that fluttered in the evening breeze. The apothecary shop on the bottom floor appeared to be out of business, but yellow light shone in the windows above. A little old woman answered his ring; he’d learn her name later, but for now she only showed him in with a hurried wave of her hand.  
[ Need to straighten out Mrs Hudson]  
“Just come right in dear, he said to come straight up.”

John climbed to the landing, where a door stood ajar. Uncertain, he knocked.

“Come in,” called Sherlock’s voice, so in John went.

The sight that met his eyes was strange indeed. The door gave onto a large sitting room that would have been cozy were it not in such disarray. Just now, though, all the furniture stood jumbled in the corners, and the rug had been rolled back to expose bare boards. On these was scribed an elaborate pattern of circles, triangles, and arcane symbols, in the middle of which stood Sherlock Holmes, stripped to the waist. John had heard rumors that magicians covered their bodies in protective tattoos, but that was not true of Sherlock; his skin was perfectly bare, nearly hairless and as pale as the moon. He was thin, but not desperately so, lean muscles showing in his chest and in his arms, which he set akimbo as he addressed John.

“Ah, you’ve come,” he said, sounding pleased. “Your timing is good. I hadn’t meant to put you to work quite so soon, but it’s become a necessity. Would you mind taking up that holly branch there?”

Having no better response to hand, John set down his bag and went to pick up the object Sherlock had indicated. It was, indeed, a branch of holly; three branches, to be exact, bound together at their cut ends by a leather cord, which also played the role of a handle. The sprigs were lush with glossy, thorn-tipped leaves and clusters of bright red berries.

“Now, I shall need you to come over here and beat me briskly about the back and chest, please.”

“What, with this?” said John, turning the branches to examine them.

“Yes, with that, what else?” Sherlock said.

“Well it’s just that it looks quite--sharp.”

“Of course it’s _sharp_. It wouldn’t be holly, otherwise. Now, quickly, if you please. It should sting, but not bruise.”

So John set aside his cane and stepped haltingly into the pattern of silvery lines. It didn’t feel any different, so he approached Sherlock. He circled once, deciding where to start, then laid the bundle gently against the back of Sherlock’s shoulders, seeing dark leaves and pale skin, and thorns.

“I don’t know, Sherlock, it’s...”

“You are a doctor, are you not? You can patch me up afterward if you care to.”

John tried a tentative strike, but Sherlock made a frustrated sound.

“For God’s sake, John, _briskly_! And don’t spare the soft parts. ”

So John beat Sherlock briskly with the holly branch. Sherlock raised his arms and threw his head back, breathing in deeply through his nose as John applied the holly up and down his back, chest, belly, and sides. The sharp leaves raised pinpricks of red wherever they struck, but Sherlock seemed unaffected by the pain, evidently concentrating on whatever was behind his eyelids.

“That will do,” he said suddenly. “Please step outside the circle now. Over there.” He flicked a finger toward one corner of the room without opening his eyes or lowering his arms. John went where he was told, then waited to see the rest of the proceedings.

After John stepped clear, the whole complex pattern on the floor blazed up with a pale light. Sherlock kept his arms upraised a moment longer, then brought his hands together, not quite touching, in front of his chest. He inhaled deeply once, then exhaled as he pushed his hands quickly outward. With that gesture came a wave of--something--that passed over John and outward, making the door creak and rattling the dishes in the kitchen sink. The circle fell dark once more.

“There,” said Sherlock, a little breathless. “That should hold for a while. Now help me unroll the rug, if you would.” 

John’s head buzzed with questions, but something sealed his lips--not magic, only a feeling, and not one he had a name for. Crouching gingerly to unroll the old Persian rug, he noticed that the design--what Sherlock called a circle, though circles were only part of it--was not drawn on the floorboards, but inlaid, an unbroken strand of silver cobwebbing most of the room.

Sherlock straightened the rug by the mundane method of shoving it here and there with his foot, then had John help him put the furniture back in place. It was nothing ostentatious: a couple of aging armchairs, some small tables, a desk and chair. There was a long leather sofa against one wall, but that hadn’t been moved. 

“That will do for tonight,” Sherlock said. “Your bedroom is upstairs. I suggest you settle in.”  
[ Too unlike ASIP? Could get the plot rolling right now…]  
Whether Sherlock meant this kindly or unkindly, John could not tell, but he took his single bag and mounted the stairs to his room. (A lot of stairs in this house, but he could manage.) It was a small room, but pleasant, with a plain double bed, a sloping ceiling, and a fireplace in one wall, straight above the one in the sitting room. A single tall window looked out on the street. When John checked his view, he noticed sprigs of red berries--he didn’t know what kind--tacked up at all four corners of the window, outside the glass. Magician stuff, he supposed. It felt as if the room were guarded; but whether against intrusion or escape, he could not say. 

John put his things away, then went and bathed and brushed his teeth in the little bathroom that shared a landing with his room. Though it was still early, he lay down in his bed; he had been short of sleep lately, thanks to unpleasant dreams. In the darkness now, curious images flitted through his mind, but not of the war: of Sherlock Holmes, his shadowed eyes that seemed to hide themselves even when he looked straight at John; and of his body, lean and white, flushing to red as the holly scratched it.

The next Morning, John woke to the sound of Sherlock clattering about downstairs. It was just as well he’d awakened early; he needed to get down to the business of finding employment. Free rent was a boon, but he couldn’t very well live with no income at all, and anyway, he wasn’t sure how long he’d want to stay with Sherlock. 

He dressed and went downstairs, to find Sherlock bent over the kitchen table, which was covered in strange paraphernalia: magnifying lenses, glass bottles of unknown substances, a stone mortar, and a number of curious metal instruments. In the center of it all was a broad disk of slate, on which Sherlock had sketched a few sigils in silver chalk. Three small bowls were arranged on it, one of them giving off a thick, yellow smoke.

“Making breakfast?” John asked. Sherlock grunted in what could have been amusement.

“You can help yourself to whatever you find in the cupboards, assuming you can find any edible substances,” he said. “I can’t promise much.”

“Never mind, I’ll get something while I’m out,” John said. He went to put his jacket on, but Sherlock stopped him before he left the house.

“Wait a moment,” he said. Sherlock reached into his pocket and took out a small object, handing it to John.

“What’s this?” John asked.

“It’s a twig of rowan,” Sherlock said. “Just hang onto it. Close to the skin would be best.”

[ Plot point: John forgets his twig and is kidnapped by one of Sherlock’s enemies]“What does it do?”

“Nothing that will cause any harm,” Sherlock said. “Just don’t lose it.”

John peered at his face, trying to see his eyes. It wasn’t that his eyes were invisible, it was just--what color were they? It seemed he looked at them, but couldn’t see them.

[ move to earlier]“All right,” he said at last, and put the twig into his trouser pocket.

John made a fairly good day of it. He met with Mike Stamford again, who asked John what he thought about Sherlock Holmes.

“He’s...what _is_ he, Mike? I thought they lived among their own kind. In the army I used to run into them, but everyone said they couldn’t be hired except in groups, like...families, clans or something.”

[ Could make this a convo with Lestrade, instead?]“Right enough,” said Mike, sipping his tea. “And even that’s not respectable, by their standards. The really posh families won’t deal with outsiders at all. They have their own aristocracy, you know, their own lands--”

“I remember,” said John. “There was that row over whether they were really English citizens and could belong to the EU. I haven’t thought much about them since.”

“You wouldn’t,” Mike said. “They do mainly keep to themselves.”

“So Sherlock Holmes?”

“He’s a rebel of some kind, I gather. Gone rogue. Snubbed his House to rub shoulders with the likes of us. That’s all I know about it, though. He’s a mystery.”

The conversation moved on to John’s job prospects, and Mike was able to give him a few leads. John followed up on these as best he could, then did some grocery shopping. When he got back to the flat, Sherlock was nowhere to be seen, so John passed the evening alone. He resisted the urge to explore Sherlock’s inner sanctum, the first floor bedroom, but he did snoop thoroughly through the kitchen cupboards, moving things around enough to put away the shopping. He shifted various coffers and jars of organic matter, some vegetable and some unmistakably animal in origin. There didn’t seem to be any order to the way Sherlock kept his things, yet somehow he was certain Sherlock would not welcome his tidying up, so he only touched what he had to, leaving the rest in place (although he did pick up and admire, with a certain macabre satisfaction, a quart jar full to the brim with what appeared to be the desiccated eyeballs of goats). Sherlock’s experiment of the morning was still laid out on the kitchen table, the three bowls now coated with different colored residues, so John ate his bachelor’s supper in one of the sitting room armchairs, gazing thoughtfully at the empty seat opposite. 

An empty evening stretched before him, but Sherlock didn’t appear to own a television, so John perused the formidable looking bookshelves. Many of the books were in foreign tongues, or were so old they might as well have been; his eye fell on a slim volume entitled “Ritual and Medicinal Uses of Herbs,” which looked reasonably modern and non-magical. This he picked up, and quickly became engrossed in reading it, though it offered only short entries for each plant. Rowan, he read, was for protection against witchcraft. Curious.

He took the book up to bed with him, eventually laying it aside and falling asleep. He slept soundly and without dreams, until--

_Scraping sensation in his head, loud whuffling sound, someone close by, too close--_

John’s eyes snapped open and he froze, heart pounding as he tried to process what was happening. _Someone kneeling over him. Something in his ear. What--?_

John shot out a hand, grasping the wrist that was too close to his head, shoving it roughly away, twisting it. A cotton bud fell from limp fingers, and his assailant gave a strangled cry--

“Sherlock!” John blinked, recognizing his pale face in the dimness. “What do you think you’re doing?”

“Earwax, John,” said Sherlock, pulling his hand away and swiftly retrieving the cotton bud. “I’m afraid it’s urgent.”

“It’s--you--you woke me up in the middle of the night to collect my earwax?” 

“Well, to be fair, I didn’t actually intend to wake you.”

John sputtered, deciding among several different responses, not the least of which was to ask how Sherlock could be so thick as to suppose he’d sleep through such a thing. He finally settled on:

“Why can’t you just use your own?”

“Oh, that _would_ be a bad idea,” Sherlock huffed, sounding offended. “Getting my own materia mixed up in the work? That never leads to anything good.”

“You’re quite lucky I didn’t knock you out, you know,” said John. “I have combat training and post-traumatic nightmares. It’s really not a good idea to wake me up suddenly.”

“Oh, that,” Sherlock waved his hand dismissively. “Don’t think you’ll be having those dreams anymore. They’re far too disruptive to be allowed. Now, do you mind? I still haven’t collected what I need.”

He advanced on John with the cotton swab again, but John swatted him away.

“Now wait just a minute. You are not ever collecting anything off of me without my express permission.”

“But I was going to tell you in the morning--”

“My express permission granted _in advance_ , Sherlock. I won’t stay here with you unless you give me your word.”

Sherlock regarded him darkly for a moment, and John glared back as well as he could, given the situation with Sherlock’s eyes. Something seemed to rise up in Sherlock for a moment, something that raised the hairs on the back of John’s neck, but it passed as quickly as it had come. 

“Fine,” Sherlock spat, at last. He took a deep breath. “John. May I please collect some of your earwax for a spell I’m working on? I’m afraid nothing else will quite do.”

“What is it for?” John asked.

“Well, it reacts with the essence of sulphur to form a vapor which, once distilled in a tincture of wormwood, can be combined with sodium hydroxide to form--”

“In brief, Sherlock.”

Sherlock considered this for a moment. “Nothing that will do any harm,” he said, then waited for John’s answer. John rolled his eyes.

“Fine. Be careful, though, I don’t need a ruptured eardrum.”

Sherlock flashed a cool smile, then took John’s chin deftly in one hand, holding him still as he swiped the cotton bud firmly inside John’s ear. 

“I hope you don’t mean to make a habit of this,” John said.

“Probably not,” Sherlock answered. “Depends on how the spell goes.”

He released John’s chin, dropping the cotton bud into a small bottle which he withdrew from his pocket. Then, without another word, he clambered off of John’s bed and left the room. John heard his hurried footsteps on the stairs.

A curious fellow, John thought, touching his chin. What a curious fellow, indeed.[ Too anachronistic?]

The next several days passed in relative calm. John interviewed for several jobs, and eventually found a part-time position at a low income clinic. Really, they needed a full-time doctor, but the money was a bit too tight to hire one. Consequently, John put in a number of unpaid hours. It was hard work, and paid little, but it more-or-less satisfied his desire to accomplish something useful.

Sherlock, meanwhile, kept to no fixed schedule. He was often out when John got home, no matter the hour of the night, but just as often he was home and awake, working on some intricate and mysterious project. As far as John could tell, he almost never ate, and slept even less. He did request that John carry the rowan twig with him, which John did. He continued to wonder what it meant, often taking it out of his pocket to examine in his spare minutes. In an odd way, it almost felt as though it brought Sherlock’s presence with it, as though Sherlock accompanied him on his daily rounds. 

Though eccentric in his habits, John found that he rather liked living with Sherlock. He seemed to have little interest in asking John about his past--perhaps because he guessed all of it--and seemed to appreciate John’s respect for his own privacy in return. Now and then, they would find themselves sitting companionably in the facing armchairs, perhaps sharing a newspaper (for Sherlock read these with keen interest), [ implies Sherlock investigates mundane crime]and they exchanged such conversation as almost anyone might. At those times, John might almost have forgotten what his flatmate was, unless he looked up and couldn’t see Sherlock’s eyes. In truth, he spent a good deal of time trying to see those eyes; they became an enigma to him, a puzzle to solve. It was easy to forget that Sherlock might be gazing back at him.

Two weeks after he moved in, John came home to find that Sherlock had rolled up the rug again, and was clearly preparing to repeat what John thought of as the holly spell. Indeed, when John came in, Sherlock was swiftly winding a leather thong around three new sprigs of holly. John groaned inwardly; though minor, the injuries from the last attempt could scarcely have had time to heal. If this was Sherlock’s routine, it was a wonder that his body wasn’t covered in tiny scars. Surely he could not go on this way for long.

“Ah, John,” he said, seeing him, “I’m sure you perceive what we are about.”

“Yes,” said John. “May I ask what it’s for?”

“Nothing that’ll do any harm,” Sherlock replied. This had become his standard answer to any such question, but this time it wasn’t enough.

“It’s doing harm to you,” John said. “I’d like to know what it’s supposed to accomplish, if you don’t mind.”

Sherlock huffed out a breath. He tossed the holly onto a nearby chair, then began unbuttoning his shirt in a businesslike manner. “As you can see, I am quite well,” he said, displaying his skin, which was, indeed, perfectly clear, contrasting shockingly with the dark purple of the silk shirt. “As for what it does...well. It’s rather cumbersome to explain to one of your kind, and I don’t recall that explaining my actions to you was a part of our bargain. Anyhow,” he relented, when he saw John’s stubborn look, “I’m sure you’ll find out soon enough. Now, the holly, if you please.” 

He stepped into the center of the circle, and John had little choice but to do as he asked, again striking him all over with the wickedly sharp leaves. Again Sherlock stood in the circle and produced that outflowing wave, which raised gooseflesh as it traveled over John’s skin, touching every inch of his body as though he had passed through the surface of a pool of water. The sensation left him strangely dizzy, and he found himself watching dumbly as Sherlock walked toward him and took the holly branch from his hand, tossing it into the fireplace.

“John?” he said. “Are you quite well?” He touched the backs of his fingers to John’s forehead, a light, cool touch.

“Fine,” said John, darting out from under Sherlock’s hand. His eyes snapped up from where they had been gazing about the level of Sherlock’s chest, and he was struck anew by the strange elegance of Sherlock’s features, the oddness of his hidden eyes.

“It bothers you that you can’t see my eyes,” Sherlock said, and though he could not see it, John knew that Sherlock was looking at him, his gaze an almost physical weight. 

“Sorry,” John said, looking away. “I didn’t mean to stare.”

“No it’s...fine,” Sherlock said, inscrutably. Then, without warning, he turned away. He went quickly into his bedroom and shut the door, leaving John to wonder what had happened.

The next day, Sherlock had a visitor. They were at their usual stations when the bell rang: Sherlock bent over some project on the kitchen table, John reading in his chair. Sherlock straightened when he heard the sound, and John looked at him inquiringly. A scowl crept over Sherlock’s face as they listened to Mrs. Hudson, the landlady, opening the door and offering to show the newcomer up the stairs. A silky male voice declined, and Sherlock’s scowl deepened. Before the visitor’s footsteps reached the top of the stairs, Sherlock did an odd thing: he came and sat down in the armchair opposite John’s, picking up the newspaper and assuming an attitude of perfect nonchalance. John decided to take his cue from Sherlock, and remained where he was.

The sitting room door stood already ajar, so that the visitor had only to push it open to gain admittance. This he did, causing to Sherlock to scowl even more deeply than before. 

“You might at least knock,” Sherlock complained, laying aside in irritation the newspaper which he had been only pretending to browse. John looked at him quizzically before turning to see who had come, then had to choke down his startlement at what he saw. The visitor was a tall man, elegantly dressed in a russet-colored suit that looked to be at least a hundred years out of fashion. His hands were smartly gloved in gray kid, and he carried an ornamented walking stick in one hand and a...good lord, a _top hat_ in the other. With all of that strangeness, John was not at all surprised to see a pair of pointed ears peeking out from beneath the man’s astonishingly red curls. And the business with the eyes, of course--another magician, though if Sherlock was eccentric, this fellow was positively a throwback.

“Now now, Sherlock,” said the stranger, hanging up his hat and beginning to remove his gloves, “let’s not pretend you weren’t expecting me.” Something about his long nose and supercilious tone grated instantly on John’s nerves, and it was plain that Sherlock felt the same. The newcomer walked over and loomed above John’s seat, quite as though he expected John to give it up for him. John darted a look at Sherlock, felt the weight of his gaze, and stayed put.

“And what or who is this?” the visitor inquired, just on the polite side of a sneer.

“Ah, this is John Watson, my flatmate. John, this is my brother, Mycroft Holmes. So sorry you don’t have time to get to him know him, but I’m sure he was just leaving.” 

“Very funny, Sherlock,” Mycroft said. Then, to John, coolly: “Do you mind? I just need to speak with my brother.” 

John sat for a moment longer, feeling the tension that coiled dangerously between the two magicians, then thought _bugger this_.

“Yeah, fine,” he said, getting up. “I’ll put the kettle on, shall I?” 

Mycroft took his chair immediately, and began speaking to Sherlock while John went into the kitchen. John did put the kettle on, but under the circumstances he felt no hesitation at all about eavesdropping on the brothers’ conversation, which he accomplished under cover of rummaging in the pantry.

“First of all,” Mycroft said, “I really must insist that you stop interfering with my scrying. You know perfectly well that it’s for your own safety and protection.”

“Protection!” Sherlock scoffed. “I can protect myself very well, and you know it.”

“But you _can’t_ ,” Mycroft said. “Away from your House, away from your family--you’re vulnerable as a chick fallen out of its nest.”

“I take reasonable precautions.”

“Rowan berries in the windows, Sherlock? Ivy on the door? Those things won’t protect you, not against someone who really wants to do you harm.”

“But why should anyone want to do me harm?” Sherlock asked, his voice rising so that John could hear it clearly. “I’ve renounced my House, I have no title, no standing at all. There’s nothing to gain by challenging me.” 

“You are still powerful,” Mycroft said, more quietly. “Anyone defeating you would gain the respect of his peers. And they’d have a card to play against the Holmses--”

“Oh, don’t pretend you would _care_. The House of Holmes could never stir itself to avenge _me_ , the deserter, the black sheep. It would set a bad example.”

Mycroft exhaled slowly, as though willing himself to calm. “Not officially, no,” he admitted. “But that doesn’t mean we want it to happen.” 

“Want what to happen, Mycroft? There is no _happen_. Nothing’s _happening_. So will you kindly just leave me alone!”

“I’ll leave you alone on one condition,” Mycroft said. “Stop working the counter-scrying spell. I know how much of your energy it takes, and it only puts you in danger.”

“No,” Sherlock said. “You’ll only come ‘round again when you catch me doing something you don’t approve of.”

“And are you planning to do such things, Sherlock?”

“Yes,” Sherlock answered. “Definitely. Every day.” 

“Fine,” said Mycroft, rising smoothly. By now the kettle had whistled, and John jumped to turn it off. Mycroft spied him popping out of the pantry, and stopped in his tracks, regarding John with a strange expression. 

“And you, John Watson,” he said. “What are you doing here?”

“I’m sorry?” said John. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, what does my brother want with you? What are you giving him in payment for living here?”

“Mycroft--” Sherlock said, but Mycroft went on, looking John up and down. 

“It’s perfectly apparent that you can’t afford to pay a fair share of the rent, which would suggest that this arrangement benefits you disproportionately. Sherlock is not in the habit of handing out favors, particularly ones as inconvenient as I assume a mundane flatmate must be. Therefore, I assume he gets something out of you in return. Tell me, what is it?” 

“Mycroft,” Sherlock said again, a warning tone coming into his voice. 

“I’m not sure what you’re implying,” John said levelly. If this tosser was trying to suggest that he and Sherlock had some kind of weird sexual arrangement--

“Mycroft, I would _never_ ,” Sherlock interjected, almost shouting now. 

“Wouldn’t you?” Mycroft rounded on him. “You’ve defiled and disobeyed enough of our customs; I wouldn’t put it past you. Is that why you’re so anxious to protect your precious privacy?”

Sherlock’s mouth snapped shut, and for a moment he said nothing, but it seemed to John that he somehow expanded in size, the sunlight dimming as he gathered himself.

“Mycroft,” he rumbled, his voice seeming to rattle the teacups in their saucers. “Get. Out.”

Mycroft regarded him sourly for a moment, then rolled his eyes. “Fine,” he said. “Have it your way. But mind how you go, Sherlock. There are always consequences.” He cast a parting sneer at John, then turned and left, slamming the door behind him. With that slam, all of the pictures in the flat fell down off the walls with a crunch of wood and tinkle of glass.

“Childish,” Sherlock said, but the thunder had gone out of him. He stalked back into the sitting room, running his hand through his hair in a nervous motion. John followed him. 

“I do apologize, John,” Sherlock said. “My brother can aggravate me like no one else.”

“I don’t understand,” John said. “What _was_ he implying?”

“Doesn’t matter. It isn’t true, anyway.”

“ _Sherlock_.” John let some of his frustration show, which caused Sherlock to cease his pacing and really look at John. 

“Fine,” he said. “Fine, it was bound to come up sooner or later. Sit down, and I’ll explain.”

John sat, but Sherlock didn’t. He continued to pace, looking everywhere but at John. _Not as if I could see his eyes anyway,_ John thought, but said nothing, allowing Sherlock a moment to put his thoughts together.

“Do you know what a familiar is?” Sherlock asked. 

John frowned, remembering. “It’s...sort of an animal, isn’t it? Like when a witch has a black cat?”

“An offensive stereotype,” Sherlock grimaced, “but yes, you have the idea. It is an animal, which a magician may employ for companionship and to help with certain magical tasks.” 

“Sounds a bit like my billet,” John said. He meant it to be a joke, but Sherlock’s frown only deepened.

“I’m afraid that’s what Mycroft was getting at. There have been magicians in the past who kept humans--ordinary humans, I mean--as familiars. We...don’t do that anymore.”

“Oh, I see,” said John, beginning to understand. “You cottoned on that enslaving other sentient beings might not be quite ethical.”

“Essentially,” Sherlock agreed. “Though cats and magpies are sentient as well, in their own way, but--anyhow, the point is that it’s no longer the done thing among the right sort of magician.”

“And...are you the right sort of magician?” He wondered if he ought to dread the answer.

“ _Mycroft_ doesn’t think so,” Sherlock said. “But one can march out of step with the crowd without being morally reprehensible, I should hope.” 

“I should hope so,” John agreed, smiling in spite of himself. “So...am I your familiar?”

“No,” Sherlock whirled to regard him. “No, that’s exactly the point. You don’t _belong_ to me, you’re here voluntarily. I mean, yes, you’d have to go and stay with your wretched sister or something for a while, but you could leave if you wanted to.”

“That’s true,” John said. “Go on.”

“Besides, it takes a certain kind of spell to make a familiar. The magician has to put a little bit of himself into it, a little bit of his soul. [ If bits of John are going into Sherlock’s spells, maybe Sherlock is John’s familiar in some sense…  
] It makes the creature loyal, allows it to be part of the magic in a way that you won’t ever be.”

“All right,” John said. “So Mycroft was wrong. Everything’s fine. I’m just your flatmate and occasional assistant. You can stop pacing.”

Sherlock did stop, to John’s relief. “I suppose,” he said. “Yes, I imagine you’re right. Bloody Mycroft, we’ll have to re-hang the pictures. Knocked down the rowan berries, too, I’ll bet.” 

That settled the issue for the moment, and John thought no more about it until he was lying in his bed later that night. Then the sound of Mycroft’s words came back to him: _defiled and disobeyed_. He’d made the idea of keeping a human familiar sound incredibly shameful--and Sherlock had been so angered by it, had seemed almost desperate to keep Mycroft from revealing his concerns. Had he been afraid that John would believe it? Or...had he been afraid that it was true?

That thought sent a shiver of apprehension through John. What, after all, was their arrangement? The stupid earwax thing--what would Sherlock have done if John had flat out refused? Would he have tried to force the issue? Would he have thrown John out on the street? John thought not, but how could he know? What would happen when Sherlock eventually asked for something that John was not prepared to give him? 

This whole thing was probably a bad idea. Probably, he should run as far and as fast away as he could. But he didn’t want to--in fact, the very thought made him want to dig in his heels and figure out a way to stay.

The next morning, he spoke to Sherlock. 

“So, why _don’t_ you have a familiar, then? An animal one?”

“Ugh, bloody nuisance,” Sherlock said, not looking up from where he was carefully adding drops of brown liquid to a vial. “They’re far too stupid to do anything really useful. They haven’t even got hands.” 

“So a human would be superior?” He was hoping to catch Sherlock out, and he succeeded even better than he had expected.

“Of course,” Sherlock said. “They can understand complex instructions, they’ve got hands, they can speak in complete sentences.”

“So you would want a human familiar, if you could have one.”

Sherlock lowered his tools and turned to look at John. John felt that if he could see Sherlock’s eyes, they would be narrowed in suspicion.

“That’s not what I meant,” he said. “What are you playing at?”

“I think you wanted a human familiar,” John continued. “But since that’s not allowed, you decided you’d try just having someone around who could do what a familiar would do, without the added trouble of the formal relationship.”

Sherlock scowled in a way that suggested John’s guess had struck close to home. “It isn’t like that.”

“No?”

“No.” He tugged irritably at the hem of his Jacket, looking as though he didn’t want to have this conversation. _Tough_ , John thought. 

“Other magicians have each other,” Sherlock said. “They have assistants, or apprentices, or just--people they can ask for things.”

“Friends,” John said.  
Sherlock sniffed. “If you like. You must see the dilemma, though: even if I had some sort of bird or beast taking up space, it wouldn’t be able to whack me with holly branches. I’d need an assistant. Someone I could trust.” 

John began to see: all those magicians, going about in groups, hiring out as clans. They were never on their own. They always had each other. And who did Sherlock have? 

“So ideally, you’d have hired another magician. Except you don’t...deal with other magicians?”

“No,” Sherlock said. “Competitive, sycophantic, paranoid--I’d rather have a black cat.” 

“But instead you got me,” John said. It came out sounding surprisingly bitter. 

“You’re upset,” Sherlock said, matter-of-factly. “Why?”

John paused. Why _was_ he upset? 

“I’m going to start paying you rent,” he said. Really, that was all had intended to say, from the beginning. Sherlock was silent, concentrating once more on his experiment. John had a moment to start feeling silly. Sherlock’s words echoed in his mind: _he seems a little too proud_. It had turned out to be true, after all. He was too proud. 

Sherlock put something down with a thump, then said, “I think you ought to come with me on a case.” 

“A case?” John asked. “What do you mean?”  
“It’s what I do,” Sherlock answered. “I’m a private detective of sorts. A consulting magician.”

“Consulting magician? I never heard of such a thing.”

“That’s because I invented the job. When the police are out of their depth--which is always--they come to me. I solve crimes for them.”  
[ Don’t think so—no cops involved.]  
“Crimes? What sort of crimes?”

“All sorts. I’m best at murders, though. Come along.” Working quickly, he capped the vial and dropped it into his pocket. Then he headed toward the door.

“What, now?” John asked. “There’s a case now?”

“Yes. Hurry and get your coat. And don’t forget your rowan twig. Could be dangerous.”

John could only stand rooted to the spot. 

“You’re saying there’s been a murder?”

“No, but there’s about to be. I’m going. Come with me or don’t.”[ SHerlock ought to be out more often before this.]

With that, he whirled out of the flat, shutting the door soundly behind him. That wouldn’t do. Cursing to himself, John hurried to put on his coat. Making sure the twig was still in his pocket, he went after Sherlock, hoping the magician wasn’t already too far ahead. When he got out onto the pavement, though, he found Sherlock waiting for him, hands in pockets. As soon as John caught up, he turned without a word and began walking, quickly enough that John, with his cane, had to struggle to keep up. 

“Here, slow down a bit!” he said. “I don’t walk as fast as I used to.”

“Not an option,” Sherlock said, if anything walking a bit faster. “There’s already a chance we’ll be late as it is. Ah, here we are.”

John’s protest died on his lips as Sherlock paused at a gate in an iron fence. Beyond the fence lay an overgrown yard or park. John had passed by it many times without really noticing it, but it did seem odd, suddenly, for such a patch of derelict land to survive in the middle of London. As he watched, Sherlock took a key from his pocket. He set the key in the lock, then pulled his hand back, leaving the key. Then, with a gesture and a murmured word, he turned the key in the lock, quite without touching it. John stared.

“How did you--”

“Magic, John. Do keep up. Quickly, now.”

Sherlock held the gate open while John passed apprehensively through, then followed him inside. Allowing the gate to clang shut, he turned the key again, then removed it in the usual way. John turned to look around the overgrown garden.

Nearest the gate was a patch of old paving stones, on which he and Sherlock stood. Only a few feet in, however, the walkway disintegrated, giving way to leaf-strewn earth. Gnarled trees grew on every side, leafless with the impending winter, and dead, tangled vines made passage impossible. Some of the vines were rose briars, with shriveled, dark red rose hips still clinging to the stems. The place might be beautiful in summer, John thought, but just now it felt dead, ominous. A raven chuckled in the branches overhead.

“What is this place?” John asked.

“It belongs to my House,” Sherlock said, as if that were any explanation. “How else do you think Mycroft finds it so convenient to drop in?”

John was about to ask what he meant, when Sherlock began striding forward through the brush. John would have sworn there wasn’t a path a moment before, but the briars seemed to open up for Sherlock. Afraid the path might close again, John kept close on Sherlock’s heels, even going to far as to grasp the fabric of his coat to keep from losing him. As it turned out, though, it was only a short walk; John bumped into Sherlock’s shoulder when he stopped abruptly.

Sherlock had led them to a small clearing, in the center of which stood an old grey stone, its edges marked with deeply carved lines. Even ignorant as he was, John could tell that it was ancient; a sense of age seemed to radiate from it, like a voice whispering of when the world was young. 

“What is it?” John asked, his voice soft with awe.

“A door,” Sherlock said simply. “The carvings are Ogham script, describing how to use it.”

“A...door?” John asked, feeling quite thick all of a sudden. 

“Indeed. Take my hand, please.” Sherlock held out his hand, his attention fixed on the stone in front of him. John regarded that hand for a moment, long, pale fingers curled in elegant invitation. He knew this was his last chance to turn back. He hesitated.

Sherlock’s hand shook once, impatiently. _Now, John._ Oh...very well. John took it. Sherlock’s chilled fingers wrapped around his hand, and then Sherlock laid his other hand upon the stone.

It seemed as though a sharp, cold wind whirled to life in the clearing. John felt his hair lifting from his forehead, saw Sherlock’s coat billowing, though all around them the leaves and dry twigs lay undisturbed. He could feel something strange--something dark and chaotic--taking form. He thought he should be able to see it, but when he turned to glance over his shoulder, there was nothing there; nothing to see, at least. Then Sherlock spoke; three words, John thought, though he could not make out the sound of them, as though they were ripped from Sherlock’s mouth and carried away on the unearthly torrent of air. A bright light flared, John felt a jolt of sickening vertigo, and then--

They were elsewhere. Grey pavement, dingy walls. An alley. John watched as Sherlock took his hand from the wall, and he could see where the old plaster of the building had been chipped away to reveal a stone built into the wall, slashed with Ogham marks. John stared.

He didn’t notice that he was still gripping Sherlock’s hand until the magician withdrew it, flexing his fingers slightly as though the strength of John’s grip had hurt him.

“Sorry,” John said. 

“No matter. This way.”

John followed Sherlock out of the alley onto a busy street. He half suspected they had gone back in time[ why??], but everything looked ordinary. No one spared a glance for the two strangers who had just materialized on the scene. 

Sherlock made his way to a corner restaurant. It looked a dark sort of establishment, old and never remodeled, as though it were owned by an old man who only kept it because he had nothing else to do. As though it would die when he did.

Inside, there was nothing to contradict this impression. John and Sherlock were seated by a furtive young woman who soon disappeared, to be replaced by a slender, grey-haired man who greeted Sherlock by name. 

“Angel,” Sherlock said. “This is John.”

“Hmm,” said Angel, fixing John with a keen stare. “Romantic.”  
“Uh, not exactly,” John said. 

“As you like. I’ll get you a menu.”

John ordered food; Sherlock didn’t. 

“Sherlock, what are we doing here?” John asked. 

“Waiting,” Sherlock said. “Be patient.”

[...]

“Quickly, John!” 

And Sherlock took off running. John picked up his walking stick and jogged after him as best he could, but his leg bloody _hurt_ , damn it all. He tried to get the cane out in front, but it was too late. He collapsed to the pavement with a cry of dismay.

 _”John,”_ said Sherlock, running back to him. “Oh, this won’t do at all.”

Sherlock knelt beside him and he—he had a knife in his hand. John knocked his arm away, but Sherlock grabbed his wrist and held him down before John could gather his momentum.

“Hold still,” said Sherlock. “I’m going to fix it.” And then, with a lightning-fast motion, he slashed at John’s trousers. The blade parted the cloth and drew a bright streak of pain across the front of his hip. He swore and tried to throw Sherlock off, but Sherlock seemed immovable as granite.

Then John saw Sherlock’s eyes. 

“Stop,” said Sherlock. “Be still, John.”

Sherlock’s eyes were light. Bright, even—shockingly so, compared to the brooding shadow that had hidden them before. They were blue-green, and clear, and bright, like bottle glass washed up on a beach.

So John was still. Holding John’s gaze, Sherlock gingerly took his weight off of John’s shoulder and, before John could stop him, drew the knife blade across his palm. John saw a flash of deep red blood before Sherlock clapped his freshly wounded hand against the rent in John’s trousers. Then he found John’s eyes again and, as John felt himself spinning away into that blue-green sea, Sherlock uttered three distinct and separate words. John could not have repeated them, afterward, but they sounded ancient and hard as stones. 

“There, get up,” Sherlock said, rising swiftly and turning away. “Quickly, now, or we’ll lose him!”

Shakily, John rose to his feet. His leg didn’t seem to be hurting. Looking down, he saw his clothing smeared with blood, but—he could walk. Hell, he could run. Sherlock was skidding around a corner up ahead. John ran after him.

[…]

Only much later, after [….who the fuck knows…], did John have leisure to really look at his leg. In the bathroom at 221b, he took down his trousers with the intent of surveying the damage. Whatever he’d expected, it wasn’t this: no injury at all, no scar, no mark of any kind. Just smooth, whole skin. Exactly as though nothing had happened. 

He pulled his trousers up again, slowly, then made his way back out to the sitting room. 

[I guess they’re home again, or should they be in a cab?]

“Sherlock?” he asked, with some hesitation. Sherlock opened his eyes and looked up expectantly from where he was lying on his back on the sofa.

“What did you—what…happened, back there?”

“I was afraid you’d react this way,” Sherlock said, without moving.

“What way?” John asked.

“I’ve frightened you,” Sherlock said. “And you hate being frightened, so in a moment, you’re going to be angry.”

“Sherlock,” John said again, trying very hard _not_ to sound angry. “What did you do?”

“Well, I did some magic of course. I’m a magician, after all. It’s what I do.”

“You did…magic, on me? Without my consent? And also, was that—Jesus, I mean, have you even heard of blood-borne pathogens? You can’t just—“

But Sherlock was laughing, hand over his mouth, his shoulders shaking with it. John trailed off, choked with rage, and Sherlock only started laughing harder. 

“I’m sorry,” he said. “Sorry. But, John, look at your _trousers_.”

So John looked again, and this time there was…nothing. The long, horizontal tear was still there, but the blood stains were gone, vanished as though they had never been there.

“How did you—Where’s it all gone?”

“It was never there,” Sherlock said. “Psychosomatic injury, psychosomatic cure.”

“What?” John asked, still not understanding.

Sherlock sighed. “That would be telling, John. If I reveal too much, it will spoil the effect. It was really a very minor spell, I assure you. And you’ve nothing to fear from _blood borne pathogens_.” 

“You sound as if you don’t believe they exist,” John said.

“I’m simply saying they’re irrelevant to the present situation. Now, your leg is cured and we’re one step closer to [catching our man].”

He seemed to think that this concluded the discussion, but John wasn’t finished yet.

“I…I saw your eyes,” he said.

“Oh, yes, that,” Sherlock said. He waved a hand dismissively. “Side effect.”

“But did you…did you do something to me? With your eyes?”

“Like what?” Sherlock asked. “Control you?”

John stayed silent. Sherlock sighed.

“No, I cannot control you with my eyes—not in the way you’re thinking. But the eyes are a part of the magic. I apologize if it made you uncomfortable. It was expedient.”

“It wasn’t uncomfortable,” John said, automatically. 

There was a minute pause, during which John imagined those eyes glancing at him keenly. “No?” Sherlock said. “Well then. I’m afraid I haven’t any magic for mending that tear in your trousers. I’d offer to buy you a new pair, but—“

“Yeah, I know, against the rules[ retcon  
],” John puffed. “Well, thanks anyway. Suppose I’d better go and change.”


End file.
